


Stand Under The Weight

by burgundians



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Crimes & Criminals, Fluff, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Immigration & Emigration, M/M, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burgundians/pseuds/burgundians
Summary: Four lives Credence Barebone could have lived and one that he did.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> _Amo: volo ut sis_  
>  (I love you, I want you to be)  
> \- Saint Augustine

i.

 

He was young still when he understood that his mother had done a Bad Thing. It was a realization that came in pieces, building up to form a larger work.

His mother was beautiful, he always thought. Maybe she didn’t look like those girls in the magazines or the rich women in the street but he didn’t mind. Her long brown hair tumbled down her back when she took it out of her net and for as long as he could remember her dark eyes smiled when she looked at him. He never said but he was a little heartbroken when he came back from his sixth year at Ilvermorny and all that was left of her hair curled at the sides of her chin.

She was voluptuous and buxom and he was young too when he felt eyes following them as they walked down the street. They didn’t seem to care that her dress was five years out of style and her shoes scuffed, and that she was holding one boy by one hand and several parcels in the other. Eyes followed often and he didn’t like it.

She told him stories of her island sometimes, especially when he was younger and the green grass, so impossibly green, seemed so strange to him, a born New Yorker, used to the grey of the city.

He’s young when he realized they were alone in the world. It was a strange time for such an epiphany. He had woken to see her sitting at the open window, looking outside into another tenement. The kitchen table was strewn with vials, a cauldron at the center. The smell stung at his eyes and he blinked rapidly. His mother looked sad. It was jarring to him to understand he only saw half of her, the smiling part that held his hand, and said “don’t worry, a thaisce”.

His mother is a woman alone.

There is no man in their house. No loud, booming voice, which he didn’t particularly mind, because most of his neighbours didn’t sound particularly nice. She is a foreigner and he sees the sneers sometimes when she talks.

It got worse when he started Ilvermorny. People assume his father’s a No-Maj (he doesn’t dare ask his mother) which was apparently worse than being No-Maj born because that meant his mother had done a Bad Thing.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if he’s a half-blood. His mother was beautiful and alone and an immigrant and poor and frankly, they’ve already heard it all before. The magical world was not so diferent from the No-Maj, in the end. There were those at the top (students from families like the Quahogs and the Picquerys and the Graves, Old Blood and Old Money, looking pristine at all times) and then there was everybody else.

He was unsuprised to find himself in the second group, with his scuffed shoes and second hand books. His mother had worked twice as hard for three months to afford his materials and the thought of being ashamed crossed his mind for half a second. His mother loves him. She sacrificed her rest and her pride for him and how many of his classmates could say that. He missed her so much he could hardly eat during the first week, sitting silently at the Wampus table, before reminding himself that there was no use in moping. He must make his own way.

He excelled in his studies (he already had a leg up in potions thanks to his mother, but he takes quite naturally to Charms) and the thought that he was making his mother proud filled his heart. When he went home for Christmas, his mother covered his face with kisses. That first night, he slept in her bed, something which he hadn’t done for five years when she bought him his own.

“Oh my dear, dear heart” She whispered into his black hair, the only thing his father ever gave him.

He went through school with silent stoicism (he learns that word in a No-Maj library he went to sometimes and likes the sound of it). During the summers, he’d taken up work as a delivery boy. It was a quiet life. His mother kept on making her potions, he read and worked and sometimes they allowed themselves the rare luxury of going to the moving pictures.

He never made it a habit of planning ahead. Their lives moved week by week, rent by rent. The only exceptions are the too long pants his mother bought for him, periodically rolling down the seam she’d sown months ago because he grew up tall and lanky, taller than her. It was another of his father’s inheritances and as he grew, his faced narrowed, changing so much that at fourteen her eyes are all that was left of his mother in him.

That year he bought his mother a hat from a department store with the money he’d made during his deliveries. He wasn’t funny or talkative but he was pretty as a girl according to the older ladies he delivered to and they tipped generously.

It was also the year that he found Elaine Graves crying in the library because her brothers were going off to war. She was in her sixth year, and although they were both in Wampus, their social circles didn’t often touch. When she saw him, her eyes widdened before hastily wiping at her eyes with her hands.

“Sorry.” He didn’t quite know why he was apologizing, it was hardly his fault, but he valued his privacy and he had inadvertedly violated hers.

“It’s alright.” Elaine didn’t seem like the type of person who cried often. When he saw her she was often smiling with her friends, her pretty black hair perfectly coiffed, her cheeks flushed. He reached for the handkerchief in his bag, and held it out to her.

“It’s clean.” He kept himself from snapping as she stared at his hand.

“I didn’t mean-“ She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He nodded and after dabbing at her eyes primly, she told him all about her family. The Graves popped up every once in a while in his History textbooks, but those are not the Graves Elaine talked about. They were older than her, the middle brother, Gareth, by ten years, newly married to just the funniest girl from Louisiana. Percival was the oldest and an Auror. They weren’t all that close but she loved them all the same.

He thought about it for some time afterwards, the idea of loving somebody without being close to them seemed foreign to him. He loved his mother and could hardly bear going over a few weeks without a letter from her (he doesn’t have to, every week they arrive, sometimes with a parcel and he keeps everything, all the scarves and warm socks and sweaters). It made him wonder if he could find it in himself to love his father, despite not knowing him. He decided then that he wouldn’t bother with such ideas. He had his mother and didn’t need anybody else.

1918 was an important year. He started it with a nice pair of gloves, made of real leather, that his mother bought him that Christmas. The Graves brothers went off to war, along with thousands of others (the next time he sees Elaine crying is in the following year, sharp cries like a wounded animal).

And in May, he fought a battle of his own, when John Vilde kissed him.

He liked it. He liked it a lot.

He told his mother that summer and the hand on his hair stilled for a heart stopping, terrifying second before continuing its downward path to the nape of his neck.

He almost cried in relief.

He kissed a few more boys after that.

He was seventeen when he sat his exams. He didn’t have much doubts in his abilities but he noticed a few eyebrows raising during his practical evaluation. He graduated with his mother looking proudly at him from where she sat with the other parents, pretty and sharp in a new blue dress. He was coming back with snacks from the table when a man he recognized as one of the examinators caught up to him.

“Say, young man, have you considered what you’re going to do now?” He looked at the man, waiting for him to continue. _Hear everything out, but don’t commit unless you’re sure_ , his mother taught him that too.

“My name is Bill Quahog, I work with MACUSA, and I think you have enormous potential.” The man continued, smiling as him.

“Doing what?” His mother had caught up to them, standing at his side.

“Ma’am, with his grades and his power, he can do anything he wants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thaisce - my treasure


	2. Chapter Two

 

 

> _Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit_. – Peter Ustinov
> 
>  

ii.

 

When Credence Barebone is eight years old, he sees Arnold Rothstein stepping out of his car. Later, he’ll say he was always a sucker for a man in a nice suit but at the time, he didn’t think that. He looked down at himself, at the mended jacket, at the scuffed, too tight shoes, at the pamphlets his ma (was she? He doesn’t think so but there’s a lot he doesn’t know) thrust into his hands that morning, at Chastity standing next him.

He wanted that, he realized. He wanted the respect more than he wanted anything else.

“Chastity…” His voice breaks, but he’s always been a child of few words and so has she. There is little room in the Barebone house for whimsical talk. Still, the nights they’d crawl into each other’s bed, away from Ma’s watchful eye, was the closest thing to tenderness they knew and Credence couldn’t help but love his sister.

Her too big eyes are suspiciously shiny and he reaches up to tug gently at her braids, like he used to when she first arrived at the church, crying her heart out in polish. The significance is not lost on her.

“Be careful.”

He likes to think he did alright for himself. He rents a little apartment in Brooklyn from his kind of boss, feeds a cat that’s kind of his. It’s kind of a life.

Of course, every once in a while it kind of goes to shit anyways, he thinks as the Auror in front of him is trying to act tough.

“Would you like to tell me what you were doing in the Blind Pig tonight, Mr. Barebone?” He barely suppresses a cringe at the last name but it’s the only one he’s got.

“Having a drink.” The deeply ironic part is that it’s completely true. He’s run so much gin, and he gets caught in a raid. Auror Goldstein clears her throat nervously as she adjusts her file.

“You jump a lot between the No-Maj and the Wizarding World, Mr. Barebone.” There it is.

“No-Majs pay better.”

“And you have several offenses for loitering from the NYPD.”

“I was going through a rough time.”

“Public drunkenness?”

“A friend was getting married.”

“And this is from ours. Dealing in stolen goods?”

“I was as shocked as you are.”

He’s tired. Getting caught up in a raid is always tiring, but today moreso. He just wants to go home to his cat. Talking exhausts him, which is what makes him such a good lookout. Besides, he’s little fish. They all are, including the Auror in front of him, taking his statement at 2 in the morning.

When they finally cut him loose the sun is rising outside the Woolworth Building. A man, impeccably dressed, is walking in as Auror Goldstein shows him out and Credence raises an eyebrow at her slightly breathy “Director”. An absent nod and he’s on his way.

“Who’s that?” He can’t help the question, and really, he’s not blind, is he.

“Oh, that’s Director Graves.” The attempt at nonchalance is charming and then it’s Auror Goldstein once more, squinting at him. “Why do you ask?”

“I like his suit.” He shrugs and tips his hat back at his companion who looks, admittedly, dead on her feet. “Have a nice morning, Auror Goldstein.”

“Yeah, you too.” She looks oddly at him before smiling uncertainly.

It’s really too early to be doing much of anything, but he doubts he could sleep now. He doesn’t much feel like crossing the bridge either. Sometimes he’s not quite sure if he wants to drag himself anywhere. He’s so tired of everything.

Luckily, he knows somebody else who’s tired too.

Chastity doesn’t have braids for him to tug at anymore. Mary Lou cut them off and put a black cloche hat on her head, because hair that long and golden called for vanity. The little girl holding her hand when she caught sight of Credence on the corner of Madison and James Street was new.

He sees her hesitating and he feels the old, familiar chill in his bones, looking around in case Mary Lou is nearby. But no, Chastity visibly steels herself as she crosses the street, the confused little girl by her side. She gives him a tired smile before reaching for his hand, and for a moment he hates himself more than he hates Mary Lou. He left her behind, to face their mother’s Biblical wrath by herself. He thinks she was right about that, after all. He’s no good and never has been.

“Modesty, can you keep a secret?” Chastity starts.

Modesty looks him up and down shrewdly and he can’t help but feel distinctly lacking, in his wrinkled suit and old cap. She turns back to Chastity and nods.

“Hey, kid, how about you run down to that vendor and get us something to eat?” He reaches into his pockets for some spare change, being careful not to accidental hand her a dragot. “We’ll be right there, ok.” He points to the Catholic church behind them and Modesty (Mary Lou’s naming choices have remained consistent) looks at him before taking the money and running back to the pretzel vendor.

“You look terrible.” Chastity says as she sits down on the church steps. “Is everything alright?”

“Didn’t sleep.” He rubs his eyes as he answers. “It’s fine. New sister?” He nods to the street.

“Yeah.” Chastity looks terrible too, but he stays silent.

“A bit older than usual.” She just nods, resting her head on her hands. Some time ago he thought he’d be able to make a better life for his sister, but Ilvermorny made it quite clear that wizards and No-Majs were not to mix. That quickly took the wind out of his sails. He can’t give his sister a home. He can’t help her more than he already does, pitiful as it is. He can’t even begin to imagine what they’d do to them both if they found a Second Salomer living in his apartment.

His last name has already given him more grief than he possibly needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For curiosity's sake, the Catholic church in question is the neoclassical St James Roman Catholic Church, while Arnold Rothstein was one of the cleverest gangsters of the 1920s. He was the one that fixed the 1919 World Series, which in the Great Gatsby is credited to the fictional Meyer Wolfsheim. He was also known for being an extremely sharp dresser.
> 
> You can find me and my historical tidbits @ gaskells


	3. Chapter Three

> _I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me. -_ Matthew 25:36

 

iii.

 

It’s been a while since he saw someone other than the Healer and Minty, the House Elf. The old woman comes once a week, to run tests on him and bring him groceries. It’s not a bad life, he tells himself. He rarely sees anybody else but he doesn’t really mind, he’s never been very good with people.

He does like Mr. Graves’ visits very much. He understood the first visit, when the man became Director of Magical Security and his case became known to him. He doesn’t understand the following visits, but he imagines the man is lonely. He never speaks of a family or friends. 

Credence had a sister once (and a ma) but it was so long ago he sometimes thinks he dreamt it.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been by in so long.” Mr. Graves says. Credence shakes his head, his predecesor had only come by once when he was moved from the hospital’s secure ward to the house, when he was fifteen.

“It’s alright. I know you’re very busy.” He says as he sits down at the table. Joe, the old mutt that came with the house, lays his head on his knee.

Sometimes he’ll stay for an hour, sometimes he’ll stay for the whole day. Credence enjoys those especially.

“How have you been, Credence?” The man asks with a soft smile. He’s finally managed to make a decent peach jam but he doesn’t think Mr. Graves cares about that (he has an extra jam jar he plans to thrust in his hands before he leaves). 

“I’m fine.” He shrugs. It’s the same answer it’s been for years. He cooks, he reads (he keeps a King James Bible, he’s not too sure why), he takes care of the dog.

It’s an awkward existence, but he’s aware he shouldn’t even be alive. Nobody knows quite what to do with him. He’s an obscurial long past his due date. Magic enough for Ilvermorny to pick him up but to rotten inside to be a real wizard.

They take him away from his ma, which he doesn’t mind terribly, to stick him in a hospital, which he does mind quite a bit.

He’s an embarrassment, he realizes soon enough. An obscurial in America in the 20th century is unthinkable, and one that just won’t die, well....

Mr. Graves does bring him lovely gifts, at least. Books other than textbooks (he doesn’t quite understand the need to put salt on the wound by giving him textbooks for things he will never be able to do but he quite likes history), Dickens and Bronte, Whitman and Wilde, books on art, with black and white copies of the originals, Raphael, and Rembrandt, and David. He travels a great deal and he always brings him back a trinket he thinks will please him. He brings him a radio once, and Credence had enjoyed it an inordinate amount, seeing him in shirtsleeves setting it up.

He would like to believe Mr. Graves gets some pleasure out of these visits, but he doesn’t know how that can be. He has all the world to travel, all the interesting and beautiful people he can possibly meet.

Credence has an undetectable island off the coast of Massachusetts with a pretty, old house he’ll live in till he dies.

Even so, he comes. Maybe it’s charity. Mr. Graves is not a Christian but it’s a godly thing to tend to the sick and the wretched. Credence is sick and he’s always been more than a little wretched.

“You look tired, Mr. Graves.” Anybody who hasn’t spent hours following the contour of his chin, the strong line of his brow, carefully recording in their minds the appearances of lines for six years may not have noticed.

“I am.” Mr. Graves’ hand raises from the coffee mug to rub at his eyes and Credence’s couldn't help but track the path. It’s a sign of weakness he doesn’t think Mr. Graves allows himself to display in sight of others and the thought warms something in him.

He’s especially fond of his hands.

One still rests on the tabletop. Credence wants his own to reach it but it’s so hard, it is Moses journeying to Mount Sinai.

_Fear and dread shall fall upon them; by the greatness of thine arm they shall be as still as a stone._

He has nothing to lose, not really.

His finger reaches forward slowly, Mr. Graves’ eyes still hidden by his hand.

He’s touched Mr. Graves before, of course. Or Mr. Graves has touched him, a hand on his shoulder, on the nape of his neck, on one memorable occasion he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes.

This feels different, forbidden in a way he never dared.

Skin finally meets skin and it’s too late, Mr. Graves’ hand drops from his face, it’s too late, what has he done, he feels a surge of panic and despondency and utter profound stupidity.

Mr. Graves’ hand covers his.

That too feels different.

“Credence…” Mr. Graves lets his name hang in the air, and he hears what he doesn’t say.

He wants to answer the unsaid opposition but he doesn’t. Not when all he could say is _what does it matter, I’ll never leave this place_.

“I should go.” It comes out in a whisper. He doesn’t go. He doesn’t get up. He doesn’t remove his hand.

Credence draws forth a bravery he doesn’t know he had, hasn’t felt since he was eleven and they started testing him and his Obscurus in ever more inventive and painful ways. And when he was no more use to them he was quietly pushed out of sight and out of mind.

Why should he not take some pleasure for himself?

He doesn’t think either of them are breathing, even Joe has lain down at his feet quietly. He raises his fingers under the other man’s and slowly laces them together.

“You’re tired. Stay.” The afternoon sun is pouring through the windows. He squeezes the hand he’s holding and after a few seconds can feel the response. “I’ll take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr @ gaskells


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy May Day, everybody!

 

> _The ultimate end of all revolutionary social change is to establish the sanctity of human life, the dignity of man, the right of every human being to liberty and well-being._ ― Emma Goldman

 

iv.

 

He’s worth 50 dollars.

He’s known that since he was seven years old. He remembered being bone tired (he keeps hearing screams and seeing a woman falling from the sky and for as long as he lives, he doesn’t think he will ever forget the smell of smoke) and Penn Station was so big and lovely and he felt very scared because he’d never seen anything like that before. The old man’s hand had been big and warm, unlike Mary Lou’s. He had wanted to touch the shiny wall but he didn’t dare reach out.

He tried to hand him a flyer. Old Man Stevens had liked him and asked Mary Lou if he could take the boy. It was a bad month and Credence hadn’t lived up to expectations, too serious to be charming, too sullen to be earnest. But Mary Lou was nothing if not shrewd and had managed to wrangle 50 dollars out of the man before pushing Credence into the old farmer’s hands without so much as a goodbye.

It’s still a punch in the gut. But he’s bigger than he was then and he’s seen more of the world than the Lower East Side. He’s managed to avoid New York for thirteen years before putting in the request for a transfer himself.

(Dasha hadn’t said anything but everybody knows he’d been a mess since they deported Nikita.)

“Hey man, you got a light?” The soldier sitting next to him looks friendly enough in the station lobby.

“Yeah, sure.” He reached into his jacket, handing over the matchbox. “Just got back?” He asked, nodding at the uniform.

“Oh, yeah. You?”

“I was too young for the draft, I’m coming from Chicago. Credence.” He holds out his hand and Jacob, as he introduces himself, shakes it with a friendly smile.

Old Man Stevens had a little farm upstate and nobody to share it with other than the random drifter that he let sleep in the red barn. Credence was quiet but he was somebody, and he knew his Bible which he’d read aloud in the evening next to the kerosene lamp.

When he was just shy of eleven, the old man didn’t get up and the son he’d never seen before had swiftly shown up at the funeral and pointed him to the door. City slicker thinks he’s all that, Mildred from the drug store had said, holding his hand at the funeral, never gave a rat’s ass about his daddy.

He left that night, with the clothes on his back and just enough money. He saw strange things, done stranger ones himself that he can’t quite explain.

“So, huh, what do you do for a living?” Jacob takes a drag of the cigarette before offering it to him.

 _Work for the downfall of the capitalist structure_ , he thinks.

“Odd jobs, this and that.”

“I’m thinking about opening a bakery.” Jacob continued proudly with a wide smile and eyes twinkling.

Don’t even think about it, he tells himself.

“Oh yeah, what kind of pastries?”

“All sorts, but, I have my grandmother’s recipe for Pączki! Best thing you’ll ever taste.” Jacob is all joy and excitement.

“I’ve tried Pączki before, it’s pretty good.” Credence replies, to Jacob’s mock offense.

“Not like mine you haven’t!” Jacob grins at him before sighing wistfully. “One day… I just got to find something ‘till then.”

He’s gonna regret this.

“Listen, I know some guys in the Union. Could see if anybody’s hiring.” Somebody was always hiring in New York, but there were stark differences in the quality of the employment. Besides, he was liking Jacob.

 “The Union.” Jacob repeats quietly. He really, really hopes he won’t get kicked in the face for playing the Good Samaritan.

“Yeah.” He needs something to do with his hands, so he pulls out his own cigarette case (a parting gift from the old man) and lights one while Jacob stares at him.

“I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.”

“You won’t, not unless you want to. I don’t have any real beef with you soldiers. Not when you got the short end of the stick.”

“I just meant-“

“Have you heard what happened in Florida last year? Rosewood, an entire town of black folks wiped out.” He won’t talk about what happened in Herrin. Herrin broke his damn heart. “That wasn’t us.” He rubs his eyes.

Besides, Nikita is long gone. Nikita, who took him into his own home, fed him, taught him, got him a job at the slaughterhouse, called him boychik. It… had not been what he expected, when the older man had picked him up, shivering and fifteen outside of Jackson Park.

He doesn’t think about that.

“Look, I’m sorry. You seem like a swell guy, I’m just…” Words escape him. He’s always been terrible at taking to people, it’s why he always got the paperwork. Credence takes a deep breath before continuing. “I meant what I said, about asking around.”

“Thanks, man.” Jacob smiles brightly at him and just like that the tension’s broken. He really wishes he had that talent.

Nikita was like that too.

God, how he had adored Nikita. He’d often thought of going after him, of finding him, of staying there. He could learn the language. He could manage. He could take care of him in his old age, on the banks of the Black Sea.

(Then he read Mrs. Goldman’s book in a panic and wanted to find him to get him out of there. He got a letter a few months later. He headed to New York instead.)

“I really would like to try your Pączkis.” He added as they stood up and headed out towards 8th Avenue.

“Just keep an eye out for Kowalski’s, you’ll hear about me sooner or later.” Jacob drew his hand across the air, mimicking a store sign.  Credence couldn’t help the smile.

“Hey, can you make Khrustyky?” The question comes unbidden and nostalgic.

“Sure, I don’t think it’s too hard.” Jacob shrugs and stares at him hard for a moment. “Are you a recruiter?” 

“Me?” He chuckled. “No, I just print the flyers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this one's gonna need a glossary 
> 
> The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire: The event Credence remembers as a child, it took place in 1911 in New York and cost the lives of 146 workers.  
> Emma Goldman: A figure that I encourage you all to research for yourselves, Emma Goldman was a famous anarchist and one of the several important figures of the Labour Movement deported as a result of the First Red Scare. In 1923, she published _My Disillusionment in Russia_.  
>  Chicago: Not just the city of Al Capone, Chicago during the early 20th century was where the CPUSA had its headquarters until it transfered to New York. Jackson Park is also a park in Chicago.  
> Rosewood Massacre: Took place in 1923, and it was a racially motivated destruction of a black town. The death toll is still disputed.  
> Herrin massacre: Took place in 1922, during a coal mining strike. Union miners killed 23 strikebreakers and guards.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ gaskells


End file.
